


Yearbook

by despitethewives (choirboyharem)



Category: Video Blogging RPF, supermega
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Manipulation, Father/Son Incest, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Pseudo-Incest, Underage Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:53:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29194863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choirboyharem/pseuds/despitethewives
Summary: “I’m not your son,” Matt spits at Ryan. “Don’t call me that. Don’t ever call me that.”“Yeah, sorry about that. That was out of line.” Ryan flicks ash onto the grass. “Everyone here already knows that your real dad fucks you better than I do.”
Relationships: Ryan Magee/Matt Watson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 47





	Yearbook

**Author's Note:**

> hunt me for sport. please, for the love of christ, mind the tags.

Matt hates Ryan from the moment they meet and it never, ever gets better.

He’s thirteen and he’s playing Minecraft on the new computer his mom has finally gotten him because schoolwork is getting harder now that he’s in eighth grade. It’s four thirty-seven in the afternoon, the absolute best time to play video games, because all his friends from school are home and it’s not time for dinner for anyone yet. He’s getting three merit badges on Saturday. His homework is done. A girl from his class texted him earlier. Banana is napping peacefully in the middle of his bed. Everything is perfect right now and nothing in the world could go wrong. 

Until everything does. 

“Matt, can you come down for a minute, sweetheart?” Ann calls up the stairs. Matt groans and pulls his headphones off, grumpily telling the chat that he’s going to be back soon. She probably wants him to help do something for dinner. Which is fine, it’s whatever, he’ll chop tomatoes or onions or toss a salad as quickly as humanly possible and then go right back upstairs. 

When Matt comes downstairs, he stops short on the landing, clutching at the banister because he needs something to hold onto. There’s a man next to his mother, taller than her, almost as tall as his dad. Matt doesn’t know him and he really doesn’t like how close he’s standing next to Ann. 

“This is Ryan,” Matt’s mother says, looking fairly anxious but happy, her cheeks flushed and her hair done up in the way it is whenever she goes out somewhere. She smells like the perfume she uses whenever she has fancy dinners.

Ann is making herself look nice for a man and it’s not Matt’s dad. Matt feels that familiar, angry tightness in his chest. 

“We’re going out tonight and I’m gonna be back a bit late. Are you gonna be okay by yourself until about eleven or twelve?” Ann asks, fiddling with one of her earrings. 

“I guess,” Matt says, eyeing the man. 

“Good. I need to grab something; I’ll be two seconds. Say hi, Matt, okay?” Ann says, brushing past him on her way up the stairs. Before she leaves, she leans down to whisper in his ear, “Be nice, please, honey. For me.” 

Matt’s nice. He’s about as nice as these men always deserve. When Ann disappears, he fixes Ryan with a scowl, still gripping the banister. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Like she said, I’m Ryan,” the man says, flashing Matt a grin, extending his hand. Matt looks at it, but doesn’t take it. “If I play my cards right, I’m gonna be your new dad.” 

The idea of that makes Matt sick to his stomach. He knows it’s not true, because his mom has a new boyfriend every month lately and none of them have ever come close to being his dad, but he couldn’t imagine a guy he’d want less than this one. He smells like cigarettes, that tarry, smoky, suffocating, dirty smell, and he has a beard that makes him look like a creep. His hair is long enough to be pulled back into a knot on the back of his head and he’s just scruffy in general. He looks like he doesn’t take good enough care of himself. He wonders why his mom could ever want to go to dinner with a guy like this. 

“Mom’s just gonna break up with you in a week,” Matt scoffs at him. “She’s only going out with you ‘cause you’re lonely.”

“Aw, Matt.” Ryan leans down until he’s eye-level with Matt, giving him this condescending, inauthentic smile. “Are you still sad that your _real_ daddy left? Is that why you don’t like me?”

“You smell gross,” Matt snaps back at him. “Leave my mom alone.” 

“Your mom and good ol’ Dale aren’t getting back together, kid. Believe me, she told me everything. And I mean _everything.”_ Ryan leers at him and Matt swallows hard, taking a step back. The banister leaves grooves in his hand. “Poor little Matty, huh? He hurt you, didn’t he? And you still love him anyway. That’s cute. Like a puppy.” He reaches out to ruffle Matt’s hair and Matt jerks back like he’s been stung. 

“Don’t touch me,” Matt utters, feeling his throat swell up. “And don’t talk about my dad.” 

Ryan snickers. “Crybaby. How old are you? Twelve?”

“I’m thirteen!”

“Then act like it. Hey, we really gotta get going; I’m not really in the mood to pay for parking,” Ryan says, looking up as Ann returns, her purse in hand. 

“I know, you’re right, sorry, I couldn’t find my wallet anywhere. Try to get to bed on time, don’t eat too much junk, don’t watch anything you know you’re not supposed to watch. I’m trusting you, Matthew. My number’s in your phone and there’s pizza in the freezer.” Ann kisses the top of Matt’s head. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I’ll be okay,” Matt mumbles. He hates the way Ryan’s smirking at him, like he’s laughing at him for something. 

“It was nice to meet you, Matthew,” Ryan says cheerfully. Matt flips him off when Ann’s back is turned and Ryan just laughs again. 

Matt absolutely, completely hates him. 

* * *

Matt is still thirteen and his mother is still dating Ryan. _Actually_ dating him, not just going out with him sometimes. Ryan comes over to meet her a lot and Matt never wants to say hi to him, but he does it anyway because his mom wants him to. She wants them to be friends or something. Ryan always laughs this horrible meanspirited laugh whenever he says something that makes Matt bristle or turn red with embarrassment or anger, and then says he’s just teasing, that Matt’s being a baby. That Matt can’t take a joke. None of Ryan’s jokes are funny, otherwise Matt would laugh at them. 

Ryan picks him up from school one day and it’s one of the worst days of Matt’s life. Or, well, it is at that current point in time. He doesn’t know what’s going to come after that. But for a while, Ryan picking him up from school is one of the worst days. 

Matt’s mom always comes to pick him up. She consolidates her lunch breaks and uses them all at once to get off work early and bring him home. He tells her he could ride the bus, but she says she likes it. She likes spending as much time with him as she can. Especially after everything that happened. 

But on one Wednesday, a car that Matt doesn’t recognize pulls up to his mother’s usual spot while he’s waiting. He frowns when he looks up from his phone and then feels his heart drop when he sees the driver. 

“What are you doing here? Where’s Mom?”

“Mom had to stay late at work. She sent me to come get you.” Ryan doesn’t exactly sound enthused. “Get in.”

Matt narrows his eyes. “What if I say no? What if I don’t want to?” 

Ryan smiles coldly at him. “Because I’m gonna tell your mom that you ran away from me and you’re gonna get in a lot of trouble. Get in the goddamn car.”

Matt feels a kind of horrible, humiliating discomfort when he hears Ryan swear at him. It scares him enough that he shuts his mouth and climbs in the front seat, dropping his backpack at his feet, buckling his seatbelt without another word. 

There’s a blissful few minutes where Ryan’s not talking, but he eventually ruins that. 

“So, Matt, did your mom tell you the big news?”

“No,” Matt mutters out the passenger window. 

“I’m moving in this weekend! We’re gonna be roomies.” 

Matt’s head whips around, his heart sinking so low he feels like he’s lost it for a second. “What? What the hell are you talking about?” 

“Just what I said. Pay attention.” Ryan raps on Matt’s head with his knuckles and Matt cringes away from him. “I’m moving into your mom’s room.”

“You can’t do that!” Matt’s voice pitches up so high it squeaks, but he doesn’t even have the time to be embarrassed about it. “You can’t just move in! That’s not your house!” 

“It will be. Matt, I don’t have anywhere else to go. My roommates are kicking me out, so I don’t have a choice. Besides, won’t it be nice to have an older man around again? Someone you can talk to? Someone who can be a role model?” Ryan reaches over and rests his hand on Matt’s thigh, rubbing his thumb against the fabric of Matt’s jeans. Matt feels his stomach turn over, a burning guilt and panic rising inside him. Bad memories. Half-lost memories. “Someone who’ll keep you from turning into a baby fag with daddy issues?” 

“Get off,” Matt chokes out, frozen as tears well in his eyes. Ryan’s hand keeps climbing up his leg. “Stop it.” 

Ryan finally does and Matt hears his own breath shake, so loud in his ears, but it’s not loud enough to drown out what Ryan says next: “I know what you are, Matthew. And I know you like it.” 

When Ann gets home that night, Matt asks her if he can start riding the bus home. 

* * *

Matt is fourteen and Ryan is sleeping in his mom and dad’s bed and Matt fucking hates him. 

Ryan is a slob and a deadbeat and he spends all day playing video games and getting high in the living room, cracking the same stupid jokes over and over to his friends over voicechat. He doesn’t want Ann to know that he smokes, so he just takes edibles instead, zoning himself out for hours. Matt spends as little time in the house as he can because every time he has to see Ryan taking up so much space, he feels angry again, angry enough that it gives him a stomachache and it makes his hands shake. 

Ryan should be grateful that he’s giving him so much space. Ryan clearly doesn’t like him either. 

Ever since Matt’s fourteenth birthday, Ryan has been crueler towards him. Matt has been growing a lot taller and getting even skinnier, incredibly gangly, and his hair isn’t long anymore, cut shorter and fluffier. He’s getting acne here and there and he’s outgrowing his clothes almost as soon as his mother buys them. All of these things seem to give Ryan a crazy amount of ammunition and he picks on Matt every time Ann is out of earshot, pointing out that Matt looks like a skeleton, like a fucking anemic, like he has an eating disorder, like he’s starved. That he’s not going to be “cute” anymore now that he’s getting older. That he could never get a single girl, that he doesn’t have any concept of masculinity, that he doesn’t dress right. 

Ryan calls Matt every name under the sun. It’s nothing that Matt doesn’t already hear at school, but it’s so much worse to hear it under his own roof. Faggot. Fairy. Queer. There’s more, but those are some of Ryan’s personal favorites. He calls Matt a fag more than he calls him his own name. He’s a fan of ‘Matthew’, though, because there’s a way he can spit it out like it’s an insult. 

Maybe it would be easier to tune out if it wasn’t accompanied by all the disgusting, inappropriate bullshit. 

Ryan touches Matt a lot. He doesn’t give him hugs or pats on the shoulder or the back or anything—he touches him. He touches Matt’s thighs or his ass or his waist, groping him under the table, behind Ann’s back, on the couch whenever Ann forces them to spend time together. It really doesn’t make much sense that Ryan acts like he hates him so much when he’s always working in an excuse to grope Matt. 

There’s one night that’s particularly frightening when the lights are off and there’s a movie on the TV that no one is paying attention to, because Ann is asleep and Ryan has his hand on Matt’s thigh again. 

Matt doesn’t move, because he knows that trying to fight Ryan off is so much scarier than this. Ryan always stops after a minute, usually getting bored when Matt shuts down. He doesn’t stop this time. His fingers travel up and up until they’re on Matt’s crotch and Matt forgets how to breathe. 

“Say a word and you’re dead, Watson,” Ryan whispers in his ear, palming Matt’s cock through his pajama pants. Matt is sick at heart and utterly terrified when he feels himself getting hard. 

“Ryan, stop,” Matt tries to say, his voice trapped, barely a sound at all. He feels a genuine pang of nausea when Ryan presses his mouth against Matt’s jaw, his beard scratchy and rough on Matt’s skin. 

His other hand lifts to Matt’s cheek to forcibly turn his head, and then Ryan is kissing him. It’s Matt’s first kiss, his first real kiss, and he feels like he’s going to throw up. Ryan’s tongue is hot and wet in his mouth and his hand is big and warm on Matt’s cock through his pants, stroking it, and Matt can’t help the pathetic little noise he makes against Ryan’s mouth. 

That just tells Ryan that he won. Ryan always wins. Matt feels himself go tight and taut, his thighs trembling, his body overheating as Ryan shoves his tongue down Matt’s throat. 

Ryan makes Matt come in his pajama pants and the shame that Matt feels is indescribable. He whimpers and shakes and finds himself in Ryan’s arms, forehead pressed against Ryan’s shoulder. It’s very foreign, yet familiar: for a second, Matt can almost pretend it’s Dale holding him. 

It doesn’t last for longer than a few seconds. “I told you you liked this,” Ryan says under his breath, pushing Matt away. “You’re such a fucking freak. Go clean yourself up.” 

Matt spends two hours in the shower, trying to scrub his skin until it flays off his body and then men won’t want to touch him anymore.

He considers how easy it would be to drown himself in here if he put his mind to it, but he thinks absently that no one would take care of Banana if he does. He puts the thought away in a box somewhere in his head. 

* * *

Matt is fifteen and Ann and Ryan are getting married in September. She breaks the news to him as gently as she can when Ryan is out one day with one of his friends. 

“I’m not going,” Matt tells his mother, slamming a cabinet door shut in the kitchen so hard that it rattles the window. “You can’t make me go. I don’t care what you do, I don’t care if you ground me till I’m eighteen. I’m not going.”

“Do you know how unfair that is to me, Matthew?” His mother sounds heartbroken and upset rather than angry. It hurts, it hurts Matt on a near-physical level, but he’s so furious that he doesn’t care. “You do know I’m not doing this to upset you, right? I’m doing this because I love you. And _I_ need to be happy.” 

“With _him?_ Do you seriously think _he’s_ gonna make you happy?” Matt doesn’t let himself cry anymore, he point-blank refuses to, but months and months of anguish and resentment and heartache bubble to the surface all at once. It’s very, very hard to keep himself intact. “I know you’re just trying to get a replacement for Dad, sure, fine, whatever, but does it have to be _him?”_

“Don’t you dare,” Ann says, her voice low and dangerous. It’s just as uneven as Matt’s and she’s not keeping it together either. Matt wants to scream, he wants to say _Look, look what the fuck he’s done to us, look at who we are now, we’re nothing anymore,_ but nothing comes out. Nothing can come out. “I know you miss him. I know. But Matt, please, baby, I just want you to understand. I know you know what happened. I can’t think about him anymore and you shouldn’t either. I’m trying to give you someone who’s going to care about you in the way that you need. You _need_ a father figure, you _need_ someone to look up to, you _need_ someone to come home to when I’m not there. I want to give you someone to talk to. He doesn’t have to be your father and I’m not asking you to make him your father. Just… think about it.”

Matt shakes his head. His throat is hopelessly sore. “I’m still not going.” 

* * *

Matt is fifteen and he’s in the third pew on the left side of the church in September, because he loves his mother after all. 

He doesn’t clap. He doesn’t cheer. He doesn’t smile. He stands there in a tight, itchy suit and clenches his fists inside his pockets, looking into a stained glass window, searching for a God that left him to his own devices years ago. He can’t look at Ryan and the way that he looks in a tux, because it gives him this strange feeling that he doesn’t know how to account for. He can’t look at his mother and how permanent it looks to see her with a different wedding band on her finger. 

Matt escapes during the reception. He has to. He has to go outside and lean against a stone wall outside under the church’s roof, his chest heaving, his heart pounding so fast he’s scared it’s going to give out. He’s having a panic attack. His pills are supposed to fix this. 

It takes him a while and several consecutive gulps of air before he’s stable again—or, at least, stable enough that he’s not hyperventilating anymore. He pulls his jacket off, drops it on the grass, and loosens his tie, pushing his sleeves up. It’s unseasonably cold for Charleston in September and the chill in the air is such a blessing. At least he gets one good thing today.

“Hey, I wondered where you scampered off to.” 

Matt opens his eyes as dread pulls him back down into the depths of wherever the fuck he was two minutes ago. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in there? With your _wife?”_

“Shouldn’t you be in there supporting your _mother?”_ Ryan snipes back, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Matt makes an _“ugh”_ sound under his breath as Ryan lights up. The air starts to turn toxic. 

“I don’t know what your fucking game is, man. I don’t know what you want from her. Except to, you know, leech off her. You’re not happy with her. You treat her like shit and she takes it ‘cause she’s scared that you’re gonna leave her. I don’t know how the fuck you live with yourself.”

“Pretty bold goddamn words coming from a kid who actively tries to deprive his poor, divorced, helpless mother of happiness ‘cause he’s a selfish little shit who doesn’t know how to be grateful for what he has. She had to fuckin’ browbeat your ass into even showing up. You’re such a shitty son, Matt. I have to be _ashamed_ of you now.”

“I’m not your son,” Matt spits at Ryan. “Don’t call me that. Don’t _ever_ call me that.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. That was out of line.” Ryan flicks ash onto the grass. “Everyone here already knows that your real dad fucks you better than I do.” 

Matt suddenly sees nothing but red. He can’t control himself. His fingers clench in and he pulls his fist back, sinking it square into Ryan’s nose. 

It’s mostly the shock that catches Ryan off-guard and gives Matt the leverage to knock him to the churchyard. He wants to kill him. He wants Ryan fucking dead and he wants to be the one who makes it happen. He wants to rip him apart, climb inside his body, and try to understand what the fuck is inside of him that makes him act this way. He wants to hear Ryan scream and cry for help the way Matt’s never been able to. Matt’s yelling things through a film of scarlet, unable to hear himself, hitting Ryan as adrenaline courses through him. He can hear a sickening crunch and see blood on his knuckles. 

Matt’s leverage lasts all of a few seconds. Ryan hits him back and it hurts like nothing Matt has ever felt before. He shrieks. He feels like his jaw has snapped. Ryan kicks him off and slams him against the ground, striking him in the mouth, splitting his lip. 

“Teach you to fucking hit me,” Ryan snarls like a wounded, defensive animal. When he pulls his fist back, Matt’s quick enough that he snaps his shin up and hits Ryan hard enough in the crotch to make him shout in pain. Matt rolls them over again and grabs a fistful of Ryan’s tie, straddling his chest. 

“I hate you so fucking much,” Matt gasps out. He realizes he’s crying. He’s sobbing as he hits Ryan in the mouth again, feeling Ryan’s teeth cut his knuckles with a harsh sting. “I hate you, I hate you so fucking much—”

_“Matthew!”_

Matt’s head jerks up, so scared that he stops crying, the last few sobs coming out like weak little coughs. His mother in her conservative wedding dress and his grandmother with her hand on Ann’s shoulder both look at him with absolute heartbreak on their faces. 

Matt scrambles off Ryan, staring at Ann with blood rolling from his nostril, his glasses broken and twisted. “Mom,” he croaks. “I’m sorry, I-I—I didn’t—”

“You need a specialist, Matt. Someone to talk to about your anger issues. I thought you were medicated.” Ryan schools his voice into something, well, ashamed, just like he said. Ashamed and disappointed and concerned as he pushes himself up off the ground, brushing grass and dirt off his tux. “Ann, hon, I’m so sorry you had to see that. He’s been having a rough day.” 

“I just needed to find you, I didn’t—” Matt’s mother gets too choked up to finish her sentence. “Go back inside, okay? Mom, go back in with Ry so I can talk to my son.” 

Matt’s grandmother shakes her head and purses her lips. “I’m sorry, Annie,” she murmurs before putting her hand on Ryan’s arm, heading with him towards the church. Ryan catches Matt's eye and there’s something so cold in it that paralyzes Matt with fear. 

“I can’t believe you.” Ann has tears in her eyes and Matt feels so, so horrifically guilty and small. “Matt, I trusted you to behave. You promised me you wouldn’t act out.” 

“I know, Mom. I’m sorry.” Because what else is Matt supposed to say? His face is splattered with blood and his glasses are cracked and his jaw hurts like hell. His shirt is covered in grass stains. He’s nothing, he’s less than nothing, and he’s never felt like that more than right now. 

Ann looks away, ruining her lipstick as she bites her lip. “Don’t come back in until you’ve decided that you want to act like an adult. Don’t touch him again. You really, really disappointed me today.”

Matt waits until Ann leaves before he stretches out on the grass, hoping against hope that it’ll swallow him whole. He stares into the twilight sky until he sees white fuzzies cloud his broken vision. 

* * *

Matt is still fifteen and Ann has work tomorrow, so she and Ryan are spending their honeymoon at the house. They’re drunk. Or at least Ann is. 

His bedroom is right next to theirs and the walls are thin. He’s usually able to tune them out, but it seems impossible tonight. 

Matt has a mark on his jaw that he knows will be a big, purple bruise later. His nose aches. His backup glasses are folded on his bedside table. He’s wide awake, anxious and angry and miserable, and he’s quiet and still in his bed. 

He can hear everything Ryan’s doing. 

It’s kind of like porn. Almost. Matt feels disconnected from the situation, like he doesn’t know these people. He hears Ryan mutter something and Matt can barely make it out. 

“...over here...like that.”

Ryan’s voice is low and dark and rough. Matt hears him swear and sigh, rich with pleasure. 

“Fuck, that’s right, just like that,” Ryan says, and Matt’s close his eyes as he shoves his hand down his boxer briefs. The pain in his face throbs and he feels exhausted and fed up with himself, wondering why he’s doing this, if he’ll ever stop feeling this way. 

This creepy degenerate shit is all he can get off to anymore. 

* * *

Matt is sixteen and Ann is at work on a Saturday evening. Ryan has him pinned against the wall, holding a lit cigarette an inch from Matt's face. 

“You won’t do it,” Matt says breathlessly, slipping up a little further off the floor as Ryan’s thigh presses between his legs. They’re tangled together as rain pelts the windows furiously, thunder rolling low in the distance. “You won’t fucking do it, pussy. She’s gonna know it was you.”

“Depends on where she’s looking.” Ryan fists his free hand in Matt’s shirt and jerks it down, crushing his cigarette against Matt’s collarbone. Matt can keep himself from crying out loud for all of two seconds and his lips quiver too much to shut himself up. He never wins that one. 

He deserved that loss. He deserves most of what he gets. He knows he does, because when Ryan licks into his mouth, he licks back and grinds against Ryan’s hips even as the burn screams on his skin. 

This is going to hurt worse. Matt knows it will, because Ryan is tearing his jeans open. Matt can’t give in that easy. He grabs the sides of Ryan’s face and bites down on his lip so hard it breaks and Ryan yanks himself away. “Fucker!”

Matt grins at him, head lolling back against the wall, blood in his teeth. “Kiss me again.”

Ryan fists his hand in Matt’s hair, long enough now to grab and play with, tear out and abuse. He slaps him across the face, stinging it bright red, and Matt’s dick twitches in his pants. “You better show me some fucking respect. I’m your _father,_ Matt.”

“Yeah? What are you gonna do if I don’t?” 

“I’m gonna bend you over my knee.” Ryan forces Matt’s jeans and boxers off and kicks them aside. “Bend you over my knee and belt you black and blue.”

“S’nothing I haven’t got before,” Matt says before Ryan shoves his fingers in his mouth. Matt sucks on them dutifully, curling his tongue around them, moaning. 

“Dirty little fuckin’ whore.” Ryan pulls his fingers back out when he assumes they’re wet enough and hitches Matt up against the wall, rucking his shirt up, lifting him effortlessly. 

“Yeah, yeah, fuck, fuck me like this, you piece of shit—a-ah,” Matt finishes on a cry when Ryan pushes two slick fingers inside him. It doesn’t hurt, not really, not when Matt had three of his own fingers inside himself just earlier. Not when Matt was already thinking about tonight. 

Whenever Ann is out of the house, they can find comfort and a kind of equal footing in playing this sick fucking game they’d invented together. There aren’t any rules, not really, or at least no preestablished ones. They just have to break each other down until they’re both so beaten and bloody and sore that this is all they have left. 

They hate each other. Hopelessly and endlessly, they hate each other. But at least this is something they share. A mutual self-destruction, both of them understanding that neither of them are normal and never can be, that this is all they have. 

“M-my—my, ah, my birthday is in two weeks.” Matt’s head falls back against the wall as he shuts his eyes and moans. Ryan is so goddamn good with his fingers. “A-am I still gonna be cute when I’m seventeen?”

“Aw, Matt.” Ryan kisses him hard and tongues the blood off his teeth. 

It’s not until Ryan pulls his shorts down and presses the head of his cock against Matt’s hole that he finishes his thought. “You were never all that cute.” He thrusts his hips up and Matt wails, begging for more. 

Matt is sixteen and he’s eternally damned. Maybe he was never meant to have a father to begin with, either in heaven or on earth. He doesn’t really know what the word ‘father’ means anymore. Maybe it can just mean whatever someone needs it to mean.   
  



End file.
